Of Confections and Confessions
by cloudosaurus
Summary: Bakugou makes chocolate, and Kirishima is the only one allowed a taste. That has to mean something, right? [KiriBaku Valentine's Day fluff.]


_3:04 am_

Kirishima wakes to a muted thud.

Did he just fall off the bed? He's done that before, fighting villains both familiar and imaginary in fitful dreams.

But no, the comforting warmth of a mattress is still below his prone body, and when he shifts, one leg dangles awkwardly, suspended in midair.

The culprit is his cell phone, set on vibrate and assaulted – Kirishima sees when he bends down to pick it up – by a plethora of missed calls from Kaminari. It must have tumbled off the edge of the bedside table.

Kirishima frowns. For a second, he considers just shutting his phone off, then decides he should maybe return Kaminari's calls because what if this is an emergency, and then does neither because the screen lights up again – this time, with a text. Or three.

_Blasty's making chocolate, you gotta come seeeeee_

_like, NOW bro _

_!_

Oh. Well. Kirishima supposes sleep can wait a while.

* * *

_3:16 am_

Kirishima stands in the shadowed corner of the hallway that opens into the common area on the ground floor. He stifles a yawn as he studies the scene before him.

Pre-dawn hours must soften edges and quell fires, he muses, watching Bakugou putter about the kitchen with quiet grace. He doesn't make so much as a sound, movements careful and intentional. He's far enough that Kirishima can't quite tell what he's doing at the moment, but the simple act of witnessing Bakugou like this – anger quenched and serene; an unguarded version of himself that few are privileged to see – stirs something warm inside Kirishima's chest.

On the couch facing the kitchen, Kaminari and Sero are an uncharacteristically peaceful tangle of limbs, nestled into the curves of each other's bodies like they were moulded with one another in mind. The sight feels more intimate than it is perhaps meant to be – they aren't doing anything but huddling for heat in the bitter February cold that seems to seep through the very walls, after all – yet Kirishima can't help but look pointedly away and think that he is intruding.

The air is laden with the sweet scent of sugar and undertones of spice and fruit, and it's only so long until Kirishima's stomach betrays him with a loud growl. He grins sheepishly, watching as three heads turn his way at the sound, and runs a hand through his loose hair – oops, he forgot to grab a bandana in his hurry.

Kaminari flashes Kirishima a bright, knowing grin and pats the couch at his side. Sero gives a little wave as he scoots to make more room. And oh, Kirishima thinks, face breaking into a wide, toothy smile, this safe sense of belonging is meant for him, too.

But Bakugou fixes him with a skeptical scowl as he makes to join the two on the couch, so Kirishima stays rooted, shuffling his feet.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Shitty Hair?" he spits, setting a big bowl on the countertop to fold his arms across his chest.

"I, uh," Kirishima trails off and sneaks a quick glance at Kaminari – who stares at him with round eyes, mouthing _NONONONO_, and crossing his arms in an X behind Sero's back, hidden in the small space that Bakugou's suspicious glare can't reach.

"I got thirsty," he says, and coughs as an afterthought.

Kaminari's face goes lax with relief. Sero pats his mussed golden hair, winking at Kirishima – huh, so he's in on this too, though what _it_ is, exactly, Kirishima isn't quite sure yet.

Bakugou raises an eyebrow; his arms remain crossed. Kirishima panics and tries not to gulp, because Bakugou, damn it, is at least as sharp as Midoriya, even if he doesn't always act it.

"So, uh, I wanted water," he adds, desperate to fill the silence as this ticking time bomb of a boy judges the sincerity of his intentions. Kirishima feels the weight of guilt, heavy and uncomfortable, sidle onto his chest. But there's no real harm in white lies, right?

Another pause, and then Bakugou grunts.

"Next time, just keep a bottle in your room, Hair-for-Brains," he mutters, but turns back around all the same.

Kirishima is left to follow him into the kitchen and make true on his excuse. He gives Bakugou a wide berth, searching for a glass in the cabinets opposite from where the blond boy has begun to scrub a pile of dirty dishes.

The silence is still tangible, so Kirishima breaks it by humming a nonexistent tune.

A few cabinet doors are opened and closed before Bakugou turns off the faucet with an exasperated sigh, wipes his hands on a rag, and stalks over to Kirishima. A sharp elbow jabs Kirishima's ribs with much less force than it could have, and suddenly, all of Bakugou's warmth is pressed up against his side.

This time, Kirishima does swallow, and is acutely aware of the dangerous blush beginning to creep up his neck.

"What's up, Bakubro?" he asks, taking extra effort to keep his voice even.

"Wrong place, dumbass," is the grumbled reply. Bakugou leans ever closer, until the soft locks of his hair tickle Kirishima's cheek, and he's breathing in Bakugou's sweet scent and okay, shit, his face is definitely burning.

Bakugou reaches past Kirishima's head. For a long-short moment, Bakugou's broad chest is flush against Kirishima's back and his hips grind into Kirishima's ass, pushing him over the edge of the countertop in a way that's too suggestive not to be intentional.

And fuck, does Kirishima's heart explode.

Bakugou, seeming to find what he was looking for, simply stomps away – impassive, without sparing Kirishima's gaping mouth and red cheeks a second glance – to let a vacuum of cold air replace his body heat. Kirishima shivers, and follows his movement with bright eyes and a thudding heart.

Bakugou returns holding a glass of water. He meets Kirishima's wide-eyed gaze with a defiant glare, and slams it down on the counter in front of him.

"Here," he says. The glass clacks in protest and the water jostles, sloshing up the sides just enough to punctuate Bakugou's mood but not enough to spill. Kirishima vaguely wonders if this, too, is an art that Bakugou has mastered.

"Thanks, man," he says instead, lips curving into a smile so easy and warm that Bakugou is visibly caught off-guard, the hard edges of his expression softening to become something more gentle.

Bakugou rolls his eyes, but when he resumes washing the dishes, it's with less commotion. Kirishima sighs. His gaze lingers on Bakugou's shoulders, hunched as he rinses odd pots and pans; flits down to his narrow waist, his hips. Kirishima's cheeks begin to color again, so he tears his eyes away and plods over to the couch.

He settles at one end, nudging Kaminari – who has been laying flat on the cushions – with an open palm. Kaminari whines before claiming Kirishima's lap as his new pillow like a lazy old cat. Kirishima lets him, and twirls the strange black stripe in Kaminari's hair around his fingers, momentarily absent of thought.

"So, what's going on?" he ventures once the glass of water is almost drained, sounding faux-casual even to his own ears.

Kaminari blinks, sleepy haze dissolving into mirth as he shoots Kirishima a grin that he knows accompanies trouble much more often than not. Still, Kirishima can't help but grin right back.

On the other side of the room, Bakugou freezes. The rhythmic clatter of dishes is suspended; only the strangled gurgling of running water fills the pause that follows Kirishima's question. Tension is written in capital letters across Bakugou's shoulders.

It's Sero who answers, words muffled as he speaks into the fabric of Kaminari's t-shirt.

"Bakugou's making chocolate," he supplies, voice carefully neutral. Suspiciously so, Kirishima thinks – and sure enough, Sero's restraining a smirk, mouth moved to bury itself in the crook of Kaminari's neck.

Kaminari twitches and giggles. Maybe it's because of the smile he can tell Sero is failing to suppress, maybe from the hot rush of Sero's breath as it tickles the sensitive skin behind his ear. Probably both.

In any case, the little burble of laughter that escapes Kaminari is the last straw needed to make Bakugou whip around, cheeks tinged pink and as flustered as Kirishima's ever seen him.

"Yeah, I am. So what the fuck?" Bakugou growls. His arms are crossed and eyebrows furrowed, but his plump lips are drawn into a petulant sulk rather than a frown.

Bakugou directs his glare – more embarrassed than mad, Kirishima has spent enough time with him to know – at the tangle of Kaminari and Sero before glancing at Kirishima.

Bakugou looks wholly uncomfortable, yet impossibly _cute_, and Kirishima's breath hitches. His cheeks flare with telltale warmth and there's nothing he can do to hide it. And nothing about an angry, combustible boy glaring daggers at him down the tip of his nose that _should_ be cute, but here he is, overcome by an urge to wrap Bakugou in a hug. He can withstand his explosions, after all.

Instead, Kirishima grips the glass of water tightly with both hands. He clears his throat, as though that will help clear his mutinous mind. It doesn't.

"It's cool, bro! I think it's super manly to make chocolate for someone you like!" Kirishima hears himself say, just as he remembers that tomorrow – well, technically today, since it's already a few hours past midnight – is Valentine's Day.

Still, the second the words leave his lips, his stomach twinges, churning with the beginnings of something sour. Jealousy, he realizes, and frantically tries _not_ to be jealous of whoever it is that Bakugou's making chocolate for. He has no reason to be jealous. None whatsoever. Nope nope nope.

Thankfully (kind of) Bakugou doesn't let him dwell on that.

"Hah!? What the fuck!?" he splutters, the glow on his face darkening to a deep scarlet. Sero and Kaminari snort in unison. "You making fun of me or some shit? I'll fucking kill you, Shitty Hair!"

Little explosions blast from Bakugou's palms, curled into fists at his sides. But his cheeks are blazing cherry red, and he's gawking more than scowling.

And _oh_, it dawns on Kirishima – maybe calling a boy manly when he's dressed in old pajamas with a pink apron tied around his waist and fuzzy slippers adorning his feet, looking like the epitome of domesticity (at least as domestic as a hero-in-training in a dorm can get, anyway) is not the best idea he's had.

"No, no! Chill, dude!" Kirishima backtracks desperately, offering Bakugou a placating smile. "It's just – uh," and then he trails off, choking on what he'd almost said. _I'd love to be the one you're making chocolate for_. Shit. Kirishima's blush brightens and he opens and closes his mouth wordlessly.

"Just _what_?" Bakugou demands, stomping closer, until he's standing a few inches away from Kirishima's splayed legs. The corner of Bakugou's mouth is smudged with a streak of chocolate, and Kirishima's gaze lingers at his full lips. They're slightly chapped but look so soft, he thinks. Totally kissable. Scratch that, _everything_ about Bakugou is totally kissable.

And then Bakugou clears his throat and Kirishima startles. Uncomfortable prickles of heat extend to the tips of his ears and down his neck. Oh, shit.

"Uh, so who's the lucky person?" he manages, digging a sharp snaggletooth into his lower lip before he can stop himself. It's a blatant change of topic, but this all Kirishima can do; in his defense, it's 3 am on a Thursday, Bakugou is being unnecessarily hostile (though then again, that's nothing new), and he's trying to trample horrid, jealous feelings because bros support bros.

Yeah. Bakugou is just a very good bro. Bakugou, the good bro, snarls. It's drowned by Kaminari, who chooses that exact moment to cackle.

Bakugou's snarl becomes a frustrated hiss, and he clobbers Kaminari over the head so hard that Kirishima winces for him. Kaminari wails.

"Owwwwww, so mean, Blasty," he whines, burying his face into Kirishima's thigh. Bakugou ignores him in favor of continuing to pin Kirishima with dark, narrowed eyes.

"Who the hell said I'm making these _for _someone?" he bites. Kirishima notices how Bakugou's cheeks are still a pretty shade of pink, and that his scowl has reverted to a petulant pout. It's decidedly dangerous for his train of thought. He fiddles with the empty glass.

"I guess that's true, bro, but it's Valentine's Day?" Kirishima proffers after a short pause, careful to select his words this time. He waves his hands, hoping to highlight some semblance of nonthreatening uncertainty.

Sero cuts in before Bakugou can reply.

"Yeah, but Bakugou is Bakugou!" he sniggers, peeking up from between Kaminari and the couch to throw a shit-eating grin Bakugou's way. Bakugou rewards Sero's effort to rile him with a string of curses and aims a punch at his ever-unapologetic face.

Sero yelps, ducks to take cover behind Kaminari's back, and lets Kaminari's skinny gut take the brunt of Bakugou's heavy fist. Kaminari howls and whimpers. Kirishima, in a half-hearted attempt to soothe him, pats the silky strands of his hair.

"What does that mean?" Kirishima asks, keeping his voice meticulously level as he studies Bakugou with curious eyes.

Bakugou studies him in return, the edges of a pout deepening into a sulky frown. On his lap, Kaminari shifts so that he's breathing warm puffs of air against the skin of Kirishima's wrist. Bakugou grits his teeth.

His smouldering gaze flits to Kaminari for a long second, and then bores once again into Kirishima's eyes. Kirishima stops petting Kaminari's hair. He thinks he can read embarrassment and acute self-awareness mixed with the embers of pride that always colour Bakugou's expression hot, and bites his tongue.

Kirishima _could_ push – could repeat the question or tap his foot impatiently on the faded blue rug. Still, he knows it would drive Bakugou to _not_ reply instead, just to prove a point. So he waits with bated breath, face as relaxed and nonchalant as he can possibly maintain it.

Bakugou's mouth opens, once, before he promptly closes it with a loud snap. And, as the minutes seem to tick by, Kirishima is prepared to be left dangling and wondering what he did wrong; for Bakugou to spin on his heel and stomp away muttering curses as his only answer.

But no, Bakugou finally does reply, and Kirishima leans forward in anticipation.

"Fuckin' Deku said he was gonna make chocolate for his crush," Bakugou grinds out, avoiding Kirishima's gaze to look at his toes as he speaks. Then, perhaps catching himself, he stands taller and folds his arms tightly across his chest.

Bakugou's chin tilts up as he stares down at Kirishima – a silent challenge to say something about his strange complex; one that isn't lost on him. But Kirishima says nothing about it.

He just smiles, face breaking into a broad grin that puts the points of his sharp teeth on proud display. Because okay, yeah, that's Bakugou being Bakugou, alright. It's endearing in a way that he can't quite put a finger on, and Kirishima tries his best to focus on the innocence of this feeling rather than the relief that washes over him, - as pleasant as it is guilty – with the realization that Bakugou hadn't been making chocolate _for_ someone, after all.

Bakugou's scowl softens into confused sheepishness at Kirishima's smile, and though his eyebrows remain knit together, he has an air that is decidedly childish. Kirishima swallows a laugh, and knocks a playful knee against Bakugou's. Bakugou raises a brow, but he doesn't move away from the touch.

"Smells good, man," Kirishima says simply. Their knees are still brushing; the point of contact negligibly small, yet more than enough to send electricity coursing through Kirishima's blood in tidal waves. He resists the urge to press harder, and watches instead as the tension melts from Bakugou's face.

Kirishima knows that Bakugou knew he _wouldn't_ comment on it – which is why he chose to tell him in the first place. Still, it feels good to be trusted like this – especially by a boy who refuses to trust – and another smile blooms wide across Kirishima's face, making his cheeks dimple.

Bakugou's gaze hasn't left him, and Kirishima gulps, a warm blush returning to colour him pink, as heated eyes drift over the contours of his face – his bright eyes, his cheeks, the tip of his nose, his lips – before Bakugou turns his head and threads a hand through untamed spikes of hair.

The tips of his ears are scarlet when he mutters, "Fucking obviously."

"Right!?" Kaminari pipes up, high-pitched and whiny, and Kirishima startles – because for all that his head is heavy on his thigh, he had forgotten about Kaminari's existence (or Sero's, for that matter).

Kirishima shifts, both disappointed and grateful for the distraction. Looking at Bakugou makes him feel much hotter than he should, so Kirishima directs his attention to Kaminari – who almost elbows his throat as he gets off his lap in favour of leaning on Sero's shoulder.

"We've been here the whole damn time, and Blasty" – Bakugou's eyebrow twitches – "was bragging about using fillings and infu-, uh, infra, no wait, influx" –

"_Infusions_!" Bakugou barks.

"Yeah, infusions," Kaminari continues, undeterred and unafraid of Bakugou's low growl and the explosions flashing from his clenched fists. "We've been begging for a taste, just a teeny-tiny one, but he won't let us! So unfaiiiiiir!"

Kaminari punctuates his injured tirade with a larger-than-life pout and a hand placed dramatically over his heart. Sero guffaws and a chuckle escapes even Kirishima, but Bakugou – predictably – seethes.

The look that Bakugou fixes Kaminari with is one that could kill. Kaminari sticks his tongue out. Bakugou snarls.

"Why the fuck should I waste _my_ chocolate on _your_ good-for-nothing asses?" he huffs, rolling his eyes and making to turn around with finality. Before he can, though, Sero decides to chime in.

"Wait, Bakugou!" he calls, with so much urgency that Bakugou pauses mid-step and graces Sero with a questioning frown instead of his customary scowl. Kirishima sees the hint of a sly, triumphant smirk begin to stretch across Sero's lips.

"Don't you need taste-testers, dude? Like, to prove that your chocolate is better than Midoriya's?" Sero presses, his gloating smirk open by the time he finishes saying what he'd planned to.

Bakugou makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. He glares at Sero as if he might incinerate the boy on the spot, bestows Kaminari the same treatment, and then faces Kirishima.

The heat in Bakugou's gaze dampens to a quiet simmer, and Kirishima can imagine the gears turning behind those sharp red eyes.

"C'mere, Shitty Hair," he grumbles after a moment's thought. A deep pink flush returns to Bakugou's cheeks as he stares pointedly at Kirishima, fingers curled in a come-hither, and Kirishima's heart skips a beat.

"Uh," he says. His legs are suddenly much too jittery to function; the weight of Bakugou's heavy gaze makes him feel self-conscious in ways he's never felt before, and he clutches the armrest with a sweaty palm.

He must be getting worked up for nothing; Bakugou's isn't into him. Just bros, Kirishima repeats to himself like a mantra. Still, his face is on fire, and there's nothing he can do to hide the crimson that prickles over his cheeks and down his neck.

"I said, _c'mere_," Bakugou says again, hands on his hips. But, for all that his tone is sharp and commanding, tendrils of something vulnerable snake their way across his face. And Kirishima scrambles to his feet.

He takes hardly half a step forward when a foot (or was it two in synchrony?) lands square and solid in the center of his back. The kick sends him toppling over, and with an indignant yelp, Kirishima tumbles straight into Bakugou.

Bakugou doesn't move away though. He catches Kirishima, so that for the space of several electrifying seconds that seem to be at once overwhelmingly infinite and heart wrenchingly brief, Kirishima and Bakugou are tangled in an embrace.

Kirishima's face is pressed against the warmth of Bakugou's broad chest. When he breathes, Bakugou's scent, sugary sweet like caramel, fills his lungs and turns his limbs to putty and his brain to mush. Kirishima is vaguely aware of Bakugou's heartbeat as it thuds against his ribcage with ferocity and the large hands that are wrapped firmly around his waist. They feel good. _Bakugou_ feels good, and Kirishima makes no attempt to move, even though he really should.

Bakugou is the first to take a step back, leaving Kirishima cold and swallowing a noise of protest at the abrupt loss of contact. Even so, Bakugou's fingers linger at Kirishima's waist, at the curve of his hip, before he seems to realize what he's doing.

Bakugou lets go like he's been burned. Then, he sneaks a glance at Kirishima's flushed cheeks, picks at a nonexistent stain on his apron, and, eyes burning with fiery resolve, grabs Kirishima's wrist in a crushing grip, and drags him into the kitchen.

Bakugou's fingers are steel wrapped around the thin skin, but Kirishima wouldn't want him to let go for the world. His heart soars, somersaulting between his throat and stomach, and Kirishima wonders if Bakugou can feel his pulse racing beneath the tip of his thumb.

Bakugou is still holding Kirishima tightly when he turns to pin Kaminari and Sero with a sour look.

"You damn extras believe him, right?" he asks, nodding in Kirishima's direction, leaving room for only one correct answer. Bakugou will blast them without hesitation if they don't agree – it's obvious from the edge in his voice, worn thin of what little patience he has; cemented in defensive lines of posture and how he clutches Kirishima painfully harder when he speaks.

The two huddled on the couch don't need to be threatened into believing Kirishima, though – they'd trust him blind – so they nod even before the question is past Bakugou's lips in its entirety. Kaminari stops slouching and Sero sits up, watching them intently.

Bakugou grunts. "Good."

And then Kirishima's world spins on its axis as two strong hands grab his hips and shove him, rough, into the kitchen countertop. He gasps and gapes, fiercely red and spluttering, because _whoa_, oh fuck, that was manly as hell and he's _weak_. Kirishima's eyes are wide and bright as he meets Bakugou's unflinching stare, heat pooling in his body where their chests brush. Kirishima's knees are jelly, but his heart squeezes as he takes in the dark splotches of colour that paint Bakugou's cheeks, mirroring his own.

"Open up, Shitty Hair," Bakugou orders, breathing hot puffs of air against Kirishima's ear. His voice is low and raspy, sending shudders down his spine and goosebumps skittering across his bare skin.

Kirishima parts his mouth to ask why, but he never gets to. The space between his plump lips is filled by a light but insistent pressure as something smooth and silky is placed at the tip of his tongue.

Before he can process his own movement, Kirishima is chasing the feeling on reflex. He leans closer to Bakugou's sweet warmth and tilts his chin up imperceptibly, only to feel calloused fingertips brush the sensitive skin of his lips. _Bakugou's_ fingers, Kirishima realizes with shock.

Kirishima's lips tingle and quiver, and his mouth parts embarrassingly wider at the sensation. A choked whimper escapes him, and his cheeks blaze a shade to rival the gaudy spikes of his hair.

Bakugou freezes at the sound, body going taut as he studies Kirishima's cherry red face with round eyes. Bakugou's blush flares too, pale skin consumed by scarlet. He gulps, Adam's apple bobbing as he swipes his thumb across Kirishima's lower lip, and then pushes the piece of chocolate deeper into his mouth.

Kirishima's heart beats against his ribcage like it's going to burst out of his chest in a firework of red, but his body is still as a statue; so maybe it's good that a gentle palm to his chin finally gets him close his mouth.

Kirishima wraps his tongue around the chocolate. It melts, – rich and molten and sinfully delicious – and Kirishima is pretty sure he melts right along with it (or, quite possibly, he's been far gone ever since Bakugou first grabbed his hand).

Kirishima clings to the countertop ledge, leaning against it for support as though if it weren't there, he might just become a puddle at Bakugou's feet. And that thought reignites his blush with passion and stirs desires that make butterflies explode inside his stomach; so Kirishima wonders instead if maybe Bakugou would catch him once more if he fell – would wrap his arms around Kirishima's waist and envelope him in his touch, his comforting scent.

The chocolate is gone too soon. It trickles down his throat and leaves only a lingering bittersweetness, and the taste of sea salt and caramel. Kirishima could whine, really, because fuck does he crave _more_ – more of Bakugou's chocolate, more of Bakugou's clever fingers teasing his lips as he feeds him, more of this unexplored closeness that sets his nerves on fire and has his heart hammering without rhythm.

Kirishima is vaguely aware that he's trembling; giddy with excited anxiousness, brain stuck on repeat as it processes the fact that Bakugou just _fed_ him chocolate that he _made_ – so in his defense, he can't quite be blamed for forgetting that the point of this exercise was to give Bakugou _feedback_.

As it is, Bakugou has to prompt Kirishima to remind him that there's a world out there, outside of the moment he's been burning to memory.

"So, how was it?" Bakugou asks, lightly kicking his shin. His hands are stuffed deep in his pockets, expression now tamed to be as unfazed as Kirishima's must be uncomposed, though the rosy pink glow that still dusts his cheeks betrays him.

Bakugou's tone is demanding yet devoid of its usual arrogance, and something sweeter than chocolate drips down Kirishima's throat, filling his heart until it's overflowing. Bakugou _cares_ about his approval, – is worried if Kirishima liked it – and Kirishima should reply sooner than he does.

But Bakugou hasn't moved an inch since he pressed chocolate to Kirishima's lips. So, as he speaks, his warm breath ghosts over Kirishima's cheek – if he turned ever so slightly, their mouths could meet. The thought is as tantalizing as it is distracting; Kirishima has to make a conscious effort to find his voice.

"Good," he whispers, after the space of several erratic heartbeats.

"So _good_, Bakugou," Kirishima repeats, suddenly bolder without reason, and louder – though not nearly loud enough to reach the curious ears of the audience that watches them from the couch, sharing subtle smirks and discrete high-fives.

Kirishima licks his lips as he says this; he doesn't mean anything by it (at least, he doesn't think he does, because it's been a while since he could think straight in the first place). Maybe he's simply compelled by an urge not to waste lingering remnants of precious chocolate. Yet, as he trails his tongue, slow and deliberate across his lower lip, Kirishima is more than half-wondering if Bakugou's fingers would taste like caramel too – or that pretty mouth, or perhaps _other_ parts of his body.

And Kirishima is definitely, one hundred percent aware of how Bakugou's smouldering eyes drop to follow the movement; how Bakugou mirrors him, the tip of a pink tongue flicking from between still pinker lips to wet his plump pout. And Kirishima might be giddy from the dangerous high of this (What is _this_, exactly? Are they flirting? Holy shit, is he flirting with Bakugou?), but he can swear that Bakugou leans impossibly closer, until their hot breaths mingle.

Kirishima's lips have just begun to pucker, his nerves on fire, when Bakugou swallows thickly, whips around, and stalks away. Kirishima blinks, slack-jawed and burning with a bitter mixture of shock, disbelief and wounded pride.

He barely registers Bakugou hiss a short "Fuck!" over the blood that hasn't stopped pounding in his ears, though now it rushes with embarrassment rather than anticipation.

Fuck, Kirishima agrees, suppressing a very unmanly sound of protest as, once again, he's left cold and hanging by a Bakugou who seems to think nothing of stringing him along; making his heart soar only to let it come crashing down twice as hard.

Kirishima reels with insecure disappointment, watching in a daze as Bakugou makes his way to the couch. His footsteps, aggressively heavy, match the rhythm of Kirishima's stuttering heartbeat. Despite himself, Kirishima's eyes flit to Bakugou's hips – the soft fabric of his pajama pants hugs his curves just so – and then take in Sero and Kaminari, cross-legged side-by-side.

Oh. He'd forgotten they were here, so maybe it's good that he and Bakugou didn't kiss after all. Then again, his stupid mind is assuming they were about to kiss. No, but they were, right? Unless everything was in his head, the product of a pining imagination at ungodly hours of the night, and he's made a complete and utter foo–

Bakugou's rasp, strained more than angry, breaks Kirishima's confused whirlwind of thoughts.

He looks to see Bakugou glower at the two on the couch.

"Got that, shitheads?" he spits, and it takes Kirishima's frazzled brain a long second to realize that he's referring to the chocolate; to the fact that his chocolate is damn good and Kirishima bore witness.

Kaminari and Sero nod in unison, uncharacteristically compliant, and no-one points out that they couldn't possibly have heard the breathy words of praise that Kirishima murmured against Bakugou's lips.

Bakugou grunts, though, apparently mollified. He doesn't turn around, – doesn't spare Kirishima another glance – choosing instead to stomp to the elevator on the periphery of the common area.

So he's really going back to his dorm room, just like that, huh. Kirishima's stomach sinks.

And then. "Yo, Bakugou!" Sero calls over his shoulder. "What about the rest of the chocolate, dude?"

Bakugou pauses mid-step. His hands clench and unclench into fists at his sides.

"Kirishima can have it!" he finally yells, with much more force than necessary. The back of Bakugou's neck blazes a brilliant crimson before he disappears into the elevator.

And Kirishima's face blossoms into a smile that's brighter than the sun.

Because even if the past ten minutes have been a mini rollercoaster of flared longing and a hope for reciprocated feelings so keen that it's painful, Bakugou has left Kirishima with a chest that's swelled to bursting. The ball is in his court now, and Kirishima swears he'll see this through to the end.

He thinks of Bakugou's blush and near kisses and handmade chocolate on Valentine's Day, and Kirishima can't stop grinning, toothy and so wide that it hurts.

A big grin is still plastered across Kirishima's face when two heads swivel to pin him with twinkling eyes. The silence that has settled in the room after Bakugou's retreat begs to be broken, and Kaminari, predictably, is the first to succumb.

"Dude! Bro! My _man_! Blasty like. _Literally_ confessed to you!" Kaminari squeals, honey eyes round as saucers as they dart pointedly between Kirishima and the dainty box of chocolates on the countertop.

"He doesn't think of you as an extra!" Kaminari continues, leaning forward and shout-whispering as though that's the ultimate proof.

"Yeah, he thinks your ass is good-for-_something_!" Sero adds with a lecherous wink and waggle of his brows. That gets Kaminari to collapse into a fit of giggles punctuated by a low wolf-whistle, and Kirishima, who thought he was done blushing for the night, groans, burying furiously pink cheeks in his hands.

"Bro!" he splutters, trying and failing to sound indignant.

Kirishima's beaming, bright-eyed and rosy cheeked, mind replaying images of a boy who hides behind anger while giving his all to everything that he does; a boy who is already amazing, who Kirishima knows will grow to be extraordinary – someone whose progress he wants to watch, wants to catalyze, wants to celebrate together for however long he's allowed to.

And Kirishima might just be lucky. Because for all his sharp words and quick temper, Bakugou – in his own way – has given him a scalloped box wrapped in lacy pink ribbon tied into a perfect bow. It's full of assorted heart-shaped chocolates, and the very best part is that Bakugou _made_ them.

Later, after bidding his friends a rushed goodnight, Kirishima stands in the center of his room, stomach knotted with giddy butterflies. He holds Bakugou's gift (it's okay to call it a gift, right?) in trembling hands. Kirishima traces the lace bow reverently, but decides he'll wait to open it.

It seems unreal; too good to be true, and he pinches himself without hardening until an angry row of half-moon crescents is carved into his forearm. The chocolate box is still there, though, as real as anything ever was, and Kirishima can't quiet a little whoop of joy.

* * *

_4:31 am_

Kirishima tosses and turns under the covers. Every so often, his eyes flutter open, flitting to the chocolates that sit on his desk. Every so often, Kirishima flushes with renewed vengeance, spurred by his own imagination. Warmth pools in his heart, his gut, spreads to the tips of his toes, and he's reduced to a mess of sticky-sweet feelings.

It's obvious that sleep won't favour him tonight, but Kirishima couldn't care less. He thinks about how he'll face Bakugou in the morning, if there's time to get a gift for him, if their fingers will brush as they walk to school. If Bakugou will let Kirishima hold his hand and press gentle kisses to his lips when nobody's watching.

Kirishima sucks in a deep breath and buries his face in his pillow. He rolls onto one side, flops onto his stomach, then his back, and finally settles for facing the wall that separates his room from Bakugou's.

With glowing cheeks and a heartbeat that flutters, Kirishima wonders if, on the other side, Bakugou is still awake, too – is thinking of him, too.


End file.
